Not to worry anyone. Not to punish. Not even to be dramatic.
I just… disappear.
There are days when the noise outside gets too loud and the noise inside my head is louder. Days when words don’t come easy—when explaining is more exhausting than staying silent. So I slip away. Quietly. Like a tide pulling back from the shore.
Some people call it isolation. I call it survival.
After my stroke, disappearing became less of a habit and more of a necessity. The world moved too fast, too loud, too expectant. I needed stillness. Space. Silence. A beach where no one asked questions. A shoreline where I could feel small but not invisible. Alone, but not lost.
When I disappear, it’s to breathe.
To reset.
To find my way back to myself.
I know not everyone understands this part of me. Some see absence as abandonment. Others worry. And a few just… drift away.
But the people who truly know me—who really see me—they understand. They don’t fill the silence with guilt. They leave a light on, not a lecture. They welcome me back without asking where I’ve been.
Because disappearing isn't about giving up.
It’s about showing up differently.
Quietly.
Gently.
More in tune with myself than before.
So if you’re reading this and you disappear sometimes too, know this:
It’s okay.
You’re not broken. You’re not failing. You’re just finding your own rhythm in a world that often demands noise.
Disappear if you must. Just remember to return—not for anyone else, but for yourself.
And when you do, I’ll be here.
Maybe on a beach. Maybe by a blank page.
But always—always—rooting for you.